eight is an odd number
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: Carlos is hungry and doesn't like folk music, so Cecil cooks him dinner for the first time, while Carlos wastes perfectly good napkins on art. They sure as hell love each other.


Consider the humming, green, triangular void in the middle of the town. It appeared this morning. Emerging from the triangular void, are other, smaller geometric shapes, in all sorts of tertiary colors. They hum as well. It's a problem. The residents of Night Vale don't know why it's a problem yet. There are just shapes. Two-dimensional, much to their relief. They're barely noticeable. Except the octagons, which seem to be pulsing a distant, tinny tune, something like folk music. They gravitate toward mostly short-haired women. And Carlos. This poses a bit of an inconvenience to their impending dinner.

"I don't want to stay outside," Carlos says to Cecil. "There are octagons."

"Oh, Carlos," Cecil coos, shooing a glowing dodecagon away from his nose. "Don't be afraid of the octagons."

"I'm not afraid of them. They sing to me. I don't want to be sung to."

"Well, there go tonight's plans." Cecil takes a folded yellow flier out of his pants pocket, gazing wistfully and adoringly at the coupon for hot wings at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. Karaoke tonight, of course. But the octagons. He crumples it up in his fist.

"Well, what do you wanna do?" Cecil asks. They face away from the green triangular void, which is blissfully in the direction of Cecil's apartment building. They start walking hand in hand.

"I wanna find out about the shapes, though," Carlos says, in scientific confidence. But he frowns. The octagons won't leave him alone.

"I don't suggest going into the green triangle. It smells like dog."

Carlos sighs. "Can you cook?"

Cecil's eyes light up. He takes his hand out of Carlos' grasp and claps his own hands together in ecstasy. "Oh, Carlos! My Carlos! You want me to cook you dinner? You want me to apply heat to raw goods and feed it to you like a coddling caregiver, a glimmering light of reassurance in your otherwise cold and dark and ramen-fueled occupance of human space? Someone who tends to your bodily needs and wants and all of the above? Directly feeding the orifice in your perfect face for purposes of nourishment and affection-"

Carlos would have stopped him a long time ago if his voice weren't as goddamn smooth as freshly ironed bed linens. Carlos wants to remember that comparison for later. It's a good one.

"-with the flavors I, Cecil, personally prepared for my hungry partner, satisfying him in every possible way that home cooking can achieve? Is that what you're asking me, my Carlos?"

The corners of Carlos' mouth twitch. "Yeah."

Cecil interlocks his fingers with Carlos' again, and insists on skipping all the way to his apartment. Carlos can't quite keep up with Cecil's gazelle-like speed-Carlos ends up stumbling gracefully as Cecil gallops. If Cecil's legs are celery sticks, Carlos' are sausage links. Carlos imagines that if celery and sausage raced against each other, celery would win. Then he remembers that story about the hare and the tortoise or something, and that slow and steady wins the race. He also remembers that it totally doesn't, and sausage still loses. But maybe if sausage and celery were in a three-legged race together, they would win. Carlos knows this. They arrive at Cecil's building together, panting heavily, still holding hands.

Carlos can hear Cecil's dog barking excitedly from the other side of the front door. Carlos hugs himself in preparation to be accosted lovingly by the four-eyed dog. Cecil and Cumin (his dog) have that in common upon seeing Carlos again after a maximum separation of, say, approximately, 48 minutes.

"Well, hello to you too," Carlos mutters once Cumin's nose stuffs itself into his crotch.

Cecil sashays to the kitchen, and opens the pantry with a remarkably flowery gesture. "What would you like for darling, dinner?"

Carlos sits at the dining room table, letting Cumin wiggle his way onto his lap. Cumin is short and fat, a German shepherd and corgi mix, specifically. And whatever else that gave him four eyes. Carlos relates. He starts folding a red napkin left on the table, focusing intensely.

"Carlos?" Cecil says.

"Oh." Carlos jumps, startling Cumin. "Sorry about that, Cecil. What did you say?"

"I asked what your most preciousness would like for dinner."

"I don't know," Carlos says. "What do you have?"

"Well. My pantry is a little scarce due to recent laws, as you know."

Carlos does not.

"However, I did manage to save a box of angel hair spaghetti."

"Is it made of real angel hair?" Carlos inquires, still folding the napkin.

Cecil scoffs, but then lowered his voice to a silky whisper. "Only traces of it. Neither of us are supposed to know that."

Carlos matches his whisper. "Of course."

"So spaghetti it is?" Normal voice now.

"Spaghetti it is." Carlos thought about the letters in "spaghetti it is." Spaghettitis. A spaghetti condition, he thinks it sounds like. The symptoms of which he cannot fathom.

Cecil strips himself of his shirt, releasing four gritty purple and olive green appendages from between his shoulder blades. Carlos doesn't bat an eyelash. That level of the relationship has long been cleared. In the midst of his napkin folding, Carlos recalls the first time he did see Cecil's tentacles.

("Those are tentacles?" Carlos asked, approaching them cautiously.

Cecil's shoulders rolled in a 'what the hell kind of question is that, you are a goddamn scientist' way. "Do they look like anything else?"

"May I take a look at them?" Carlos bit the cap of his pen.

Cecil's stomach burned. He didn't know what to make of this reaction. "So..." he began. "You're not freaked out?"

Carlos furrowed his brows as he dipped his head sideways, just staring. "Oh, absolutely. I'm completely horrified right now. But years of scientific study and one year of Night Vale seem to have rendered my external expressions of shock a little bit delayed, if not completely unnoticeable-unless you have impeccable observational skills, like me. I may contort my face disgustedly in a few minutes, but don't take it personally."

"Well, it was certainly impeccably observant of you to confirm with me that these were tentacles after you clearly saw that they were."

"I see you're getting sassy, Cecil. Or should I say... Sass-cil." Even in gut-bubbling shock and amazement, Carlos kept his pun game strong. Probably as a form of comfort.

"Well... well... Carlos. You're a CarLOSER," Cecil threw back at him, hoping that Carlos would also not take that personally, but mostly knowing the pun was going to be appreciated.

"Impressive. Can you stop moving your sassy slimy limbs, please? I'm trying to get a good look at them."

"They're sassy, slimy, and sentient. I don't guarantee total control." One of the lower ones slapped Carlos' butt. "See? She likes you.")

"You sure those are okay to cook with?" Carlos asks, getting up gently so as not to awaken Cumin too rudely. Cumin does jump off though, giving Carlos a chance to gently walk up behind Cecil, setting the folded napkin onto his shoulder.

"Of course I can cook with my girls, they can do anyth-what's this?" The napkin falls forward onto the counter.

"It's a dog," Carlos says softly.

The thick purple limbs stiffen in excitement, and wrap themselves around Carlos' waist. A hug. Carlos is familiar with the idea.

"My Carlos!" Cecil turns around, but the other limbs have such a tight grip on Carlos that he spins around with him. "Where did you go?"

"I'm stuck behind you."

Cecil laughs, cupping the origami dog carefully in his palms. "The girls are saying thank you! Oh, you're lovely. So lovely. So perfect. I want to kiss you. Please come back."

The "girls" spin Carlos back around to face Cecil, entangling them both in a clear, but harmless slime-Carlos and Cecil come together in an equally slimy kiss.

"Thank you. I love it," says Cecil.

"Just a reward for leaving your napkins unattended. Don't mind me."

"What else can you make?" Cecil beams.

The girls play with Carlos' hair. It's a little sticky. "Frogs, cranes, flowers... dogs are like, the hardest one I know. Oh, and octopi."

"I wish I could just put you in this pot and eat you up. You're so cute."

Carlos grins widely, covering his teeth with his hand.

"Please don't hide your teeth, I love them so." Cecil turns back to the counter to prepare dinner. "Ladies, focus," he speaks to the ones nuzzling themselves in Carlos' hair. They all curl around Cecil's torso, the tips of them perked at Cecil's eye level attentively. He gives them directions. One and Two boil water. Three and Four break the raw pasta. Cecil's slim-fingered hands check the tomatoes in the fridge for ripeness.

And Carlos just watches.

Once One and Two have set the water up to boil, they slither in Carlos' direction, where he's sitting at the table again, occupied with a fresh napkin, creasing and folding and ripping. They start at his ankles, slowly making their way up to his inner thighs. His knees buckle. "Hey," he says quietly at them. "Hello."

"I'm sorry, Carlos, are they bothering you?" Cecil drawls, voice melty and distracted.

"N-Not at all."

They're just about to tend to the zipper of Carlos' jeans before Cecil calls back for their help.

"Wash yourself, now," he tells them. "Remember soap is a thing."

Carlos crosses his legs and continues with his napkin.

The napkin helps him think. There are so many ways he can study Cecil's extra parts, the way they seem to each have a personality-they desire, they get distracted, they listen and they help-but he does wonder if they are truly fully sentient as Cecil says they are. Carlos would be lying to himself if he said that he didn't think Cecil had almost total control of the girls-and, hey, why were they gendered? No reason, perhaps, other than endearment.

"Hey, Cece..."

Cecil closes his eyes and smiles warmly. _Cece_, he whispers to himself. The girls go limp with adoration. "Yes, Carlos?"

"Well, I was just wondering."

"Uh-huh?" All eight of his limbs tense up with anticipation.

Carlos takes it a step back, mentally. How rude would it have been to accuse Cecil of lying about his control? He thinks about what he just said, and makes a straight-up U-turn. "That's what I was doing. Just wondering. I do that a lot, in Night Vale. Being a scientist is a wondrous job."

Cecil exhales. The limbs all go back to their assigned jobs. "Oh," he said. "Okay."

Carlos completes a crane and sets it on the table. He starts another. And another. And another. Cecil seems to be working very hard on what is probably definitely sauce. Three and Four are slicing mushrooms. Carlos likes mushrooms.

One and Two have nothing to do. Carlos has completed two cranes and two frogs, and intends on starting on another dog. But he feels something teasing him again. He lets out a shuddered breath, crushing the napkin in his palm. Cecil doesn't do anything about it.

One fumbles with his zipper, and Two with his belt. They aren't very good at coordinating their actions, so for the most part, Carlos just feels friction through the denim until one of the appendages successfully snaps something open. They finally reach the crease of his boxers (covered in planets, stars, and rocketships-how typical). They tease him more through the cloth, and all Carlos can do is grit his teeth and wonder why Cecil isn't turning around.

"A little help?" Cecil says, again without turning around. The two culprits immediately leave Carlos, and wash themselves to start with the cooking again.

Carlos is frustrated. Carlos is undone. Carlos is hungry for more than one thing. Carlos is gonna take it out on some napkins and make a goddamn dog.

He folds aggressively, waiting impatiently for at least two tentacles to not be occupied. At least two. He's practically glaring at them as he folds the napkin, trying to make eye contact with... wherever their eyes are.

One and Two face him and wave daintily. They're mocking him. They're _mocking_ him.

"Ceciiiil?" Carlos says, like he's a child beckoning a Kindergarten teacher, "your tentacles gave me a boneeeerrr." And he just told on them for stealing his crayons.

"I know," says Cecil.

"That's not fair."

"You're just going to have to wait until dinner's ready."

Carlos stammers in protest. No words actually come out of his mouth. Only the burning desire to make an origami octopus.

So he does, and that's when he hears something about comin' 'round the mountain.

"Cecil?" Carlos says. "Did you say something?"

"Hm?" Cecil is actually playing a crossword puzzle while the girls attempt to strain the pasta. "No."

"Something about comin' 'round the mountain?"

Cecil chuckles. "Don't be silly, Carlos. There are no such things as mountains."

The sounds get louder, and it takes longer than it should for Carlos to make the connection, really. There are octagons. And they're coming at him. Fast. He puts his head in his hands and groans.

"Why," he says. "Why."

Cecil is equally, if not more annoyed at the floating pests. Cumin barks all too ineffectively at the shapes. Cecil rummages-with his own hands-through the kitchen cabinets, to find a bottle of Febreze. The tentacles shudder in fear, dropping the strainer, curling up against Cecil's body.

"I don't feel the octagons but I can _hear_ them," Carlos muffled into his hands.

"I'm sorry, Carlos, but I'm going to have to spray you with Febreze. It's nothing personal, you don't smell bad or anything, but I have reason to believe th-"

"Just do it, please!"

Cecil unloads the bottle onto the annoying polygons and doesn't stop. It smells like lavender and dog and rubbing alcohol and tomato sauce and wet pasta, but the folk music strips away from the kitchen in almost no time, leaving behind all the said smells.

Carlos peeks between his fingers to find the air is clear-well, of shapes. Droplets of Febreze still rain upon them, and Cecil victoriously kissed him, all the little beads of air freshener peppering their skin ever so gingerly.

"I've always wanted to kiss in the rain," says Cecil.

"How'd you know Febreze would get rid of them?" Carlos asks against Cecil's lips.

"I didn't," replies Cecil truthfully, "usually I just spray Febreze at things and see what happens."

"I'll have to analyze your Febreze. I don't think it's the same Febreze as outside of Night Vale."

"There's no way you could know that. You've never sprayed Febreze at singing , floating shapes, have you?"

Carlos laughs into Cecil's shoulder. "I can't say that I have."

Cecil feels Carlos' smile in his shoulder-he brings his thumb to Carlos' chin to tilt it upwards, getting a close look at his teeth. "What say I finish you off..." Cecil looked down. "... and we order from Big Rico's?"

Carlos knits his brow. "Big Rico's? What happened to the-"

The girls moved out of the way. They drooped with guilt. Spaghetti. All over. The floor.

"Big Rico's," Carlos said, bobbing his head in approval. "Sounds good."


End file.
